


One Last Thought

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Reichenbach, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:11:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Seb run through the plan for the roof of Bart's one last time. Jim has a last moment addition to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Thought

**Author's Note:**

> This is written to accompany [this gifset.](http://cayya.tumblr.com/post/68927217628)
> 
> Because the world needs more feelsy Mormor.
> 
> Warnings for major character death.
> 
> You can prompt me for more feelsy things [here](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com).

“Shall we go through it one more time?” Jim’s lazy half-smile made Seb roll his eyes.

“Again?” Seb grumbled. “No jump, no friends.” He wasn’t sure how much simpler it could get. They had their cues, had their com units. The two additional snipers were aware of their placements, where they needed to be and when.

“There has been an addition to the plan.” Jim’s voice was flat, sickeningly so, and Seb’s stomach flipped uncomfortably. That was never a good tone of voice. That was a something-has-gone terribly wrong kind of voice, the kind that made Seb want to do anything he could to make Jim better. Make his Boss better, not just his - whatever they were.

They had never put a word to it, never talked about it. Not that Seb really cared, being who he was. They fucked occasionally, in lots of kinky ways. There was the rare, quiet snuggle, when they woke up together and there was something that was faintly sweet-tinged in the air. Even if it did last for a grand total of about twenty seconds before Jim demanded that Seb either fuck him again or go get in the shower. “If he doesn’t kill himself, I might have to.” Jim’s gaze swept Seb briefly before he looked towards the greenery framing the park in which they were having the innocuous conversation.

Seb’s heart lurched, at those words, and it felt like the world had been ripped out underneath him. “Don’t you dare fucking cry, Sebastian,” Jim said, his voice steely. Seb reacted to those words, to the tone, like the good employee he was.

Straightening, Seb nodded once. “Yes, Boss.”

Jim smirked, and loosened his tie. Seb half-ignored him, his eyes partway closed as he categorized his emotions, all of them, locking them firmly in a mental chest that they could not escape from. “Now…” Jim’s voice was a low purr. “Take me home and fuck me like you mean it.”

One last time, Seb thought. He forced the thought away, forced the emotions away, and grabbed Jim’s tie, pulling him into a bruising kiss. Jim kissed back, wet and eager, his hands already slipping underneath Seb’s shirt, trying to paw at the warm skin. “In public, Boss?” Seb murmured, having pulled back for air. “Eager.”

“Shut the fuck up and take me home,” Jim ordered. Seb did.

The sex was different, when they got home. In some ways in was the same. Jim moaned and writhed underneath him as Seb steadily took him apart, having handcuffed the consulting criminal to the bed so he couldn’t wiggle away, so he couldn’t leave. It was symbolic at the same time it was practical. He paused, his mouth full of cock, and mentally shook the thought away, waiting until Jim was mewling underneath him to continue.

The main difference was the feelings, the briefest hold that Seb had on them. He was riding a precipice, fucking Jim slowly, the heat building between him at the same time that the lock on his emotions began to fray. It felt like every movement would tip him over the edge, leave him shattered and broken. He knew it wasn’t true - he had existed before Jim entered his life, but it was a lonely one, and not something he wanted to contemplate. It was something he had to.

Jim came beneath him, and Seb followed, following over one precipice but narrowly avoiding the other. The last thing that Jim needed to know, less than twenty four hours before confronting his adversary, was that Seb was having _feelings_. Seb allowed himself a few moments to breathe and then gently uncuffed his boss, rubbing arms and legs to promote circulation. Jim shuddered, inhaling sharply, and Seb rolled his eyes, used to the way that Jim was addicted to the feeling of his circulation returning, the pain-pleasure he drew from muscle stiffness.

Then Jim was up and about, muttering about showers and text messages and whatever else he needed to take care of, prior to going up to the roof to wait. Seb showered second, giving Jim his time. He stood, feeling the water run down sore muscles, before picking up Jim’s scented products, using them instead of his own. Normally he didn’t care, didn’t bother - but today was different. Today was the last day.

Seb dressed, pulling out his favourite rifle and cleaning it, meticulous. He had spent quite some time the week prior scouting the location he would be sitting, a tall office building that would allow him to see Bart’s roof and his target at the same time. Now he just had to prepare. It wasn’t a difficult hit - or it wouldn’t be, if Sherlock refused to jump. He had been receiving reports from scouts all day that indicated John hadn’t left Barts, hadn’t left Sherlock’s side. Seb didn’t pause in his polishing as he glanced up, ensuring that Jim was there, sprawled on the bed, texting furiously.

Making contingency plans, Seb thought. It hadn’t quite set in, what was going to happen. What could happen, he reminded himself, forceful. It was only a possibility. Jim was smart. He could make it out of the situation, make it out of there alive, and come home. Come back to him. Seb rubbed the chemical solvent on the bore a bit harder than he should have, trying to force his mind away from unnecessary sentiment.

“Don’t be late,” Jim chided, standing, and Seb was startled to realize how long had passed. He had to be in position soon, hours earlier than Jim went up to the roof. Part of his responsibility as a sniper was to be inconspicuous, so he was entering with a group that was visiting the office center about three hours prior to Jim sending the text.

“Going out?” Seb asked, his eyes on his gun.

Jim shrugged. “No point being here if you’re gone.” Seb lifted an eyebrow, falling into their nonverbal, casual bantering. Jim smirked, and Seb snorted, turning to face him. The consulting criminal rarely stayed by himself if Seb was gone. There wouldn’t be anyone to fetch his tea or grab his mobile charger or whatever Jim needed when he was too bored to move. A lump formed in Seb’s throat when he realized that there was a high chance the flat would be empty, when he came back.

Seb simply nodded, unable to say anything, to allow any words to escape past the lump. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, and anything he would come up with would likely be far too sentimental. Acknowledging Jim with a quick tap of two fingers to his forehead, a mock salute, Seb turned back to his rifle. A quick polish, and it was finished. Meticulously he placed it into its cover case, so he could smuggle it into the building through the back entrance, pretending to deliver office supplies.

Once he was ready to leave, dressed in a supply man’s uniform, he stood at the door, taking in the flat. Jim’s clutter - for someone who dressed impeccably, he was quite messy - dotted the counters, their coffee table, even the floor, from when putting something away was _unbearably ordinary_ and the obvious solution was to throw it on the floor. Seb did his best to clean up, but Jim Moriarty was like a one-man whirlwind at the best of times.

He stepped outside, closing the door behind him with an odd sense of finality. No matter what happened, he doubted he would ever go back. He took a deep breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth, and felt his body settle.

The walk had been easy, sneaking into the company in his cover frighteningly simple. Seb certainly wasn’t on Jim’s level, but he was above the part of humanity that was seemingly employed at the boring office. Next was the waiting, the worst part. Carefully he pulled out an earbud, settling it in. “Raider, do you read me?”

“Roger.” A thin, weedy voice. Belonged to a man similarly so. One of Seb’s best snipers, and one of the three chosen to be on hand for their mission. He had been charged with infiltrating and tracking the Detective Inspector that was Sherlock’s so-called friend. Seb had read up on their profiles and their habits before assigning snipers, picking those that were not only skilled, but were good matches for their targets.

“Acrobat, do you read me?”

“Roger.”

He checked both of them, ensuring they had made it to where they needed to be. Checking his watch, he glanced out at the roof. He was far enough away to be anonymous, but he could see the black dot on the roof that indicated Jim. Seb pulled out parts of his rifle, assembling it and its stand before clearing off the window roof it would be placed on. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and lifted them to his eyes, focusing them until he was able to see Jim sitting on the edge.

Seb watched him until he received the text. He sat the binoculars down, sat down his phone, and picked up the rifle, holding it casually. The binoculars came back after a few moments, but this time they were not focused on Jim, they were focused on both him and Sherlock. He watched them talk, allowing the barest hint of an inward smirk at Jim’s movements. The consulting criminal did love to be dramatic.

If Seb had been the romantic sort, he would have said that his world ended, as he watched Jim grab the gun and place it in his mouth, as he watched Jim pull the trigger. Instead it felt like he had been dipped in ice, like his body was cold all over. Like nothing mattered. Ruthlessly, he shoved it beneath the lock with the others, boxing away the emotions, compartmentalizing. It was a job. That’s all it was. Mechanically, he turned the binoculars to the Holmes he was tracking, ensuring that he knew where he was before scanning the people below, looking for his intended target.

He zeroed the rifle in on Watson as soon as Holmes initiated the phone call and the shorter man - army doctor, looked vaguely familiar, no matter - had frozen in place. Seb checked with his two snipers, ensuring that all had locked their targets into view. They had to be ready. Ready, in case Holmes shirked his duty. Chose to save himself, over his friends.

But he didn’t.

Seb watched him jump. Watched the commotion, watched the group gathering. The hospital roof would soon be swarming with personnel, and Jim’s body would be discovered. He quietly radioed to his snipers, telling them to back down. It was over. Holmes had jumped. And Seb had lost everything.

He packed away the rifle, movements meticulous, slow, cautious. As if it mattered, anymore. In a way, it did. Jim had controlled the majority of the criminal element in the majority of the world, and most who had heard of him, had heard some vague talk about Seb, although mostly under his code name. It would be easy to find work, especially once he had proven his skills. The last piece, the binoculars, got a wipe down before he tossed them over the edge. He didn’t want them. Didn’t want their reminder. He could always buy a new pair.

There was a strange, hollow feeling, as Seb walked downstairs, out of the building, back to their flat. He didn’t want to go back. He just wanted it to go away. But he put one foot in front of the other. Kept moving. He left the flat like it was, Jim’s mess cluttering it. The police wouldn’t find it for a while, at least. He was safe for a night or two. One night would be enough.

That night, he packed everything he needed. His rifles. His clothes. Any and all trace of his existence in the flat, had to be removed. He took Jim’s shampoo. Took his cologne. Little things, things he could keep. One small box caught his attention, and he narrowed his eyes. It contained his dog tags, a reminder of his past, something he didn’t wear often. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Instead of tucked away in a draw, it was resting on the night stand.

He pulled out the tags, lifted them up, examining. Something new, something different, glittered at the bottom. Someone had engraved something on each. Down at the bottom, underneath his vital information, someone had scratched in _‘Don’t fucking die. JM’_ Seb let out a short laugh, his hands closing around the dog tags, pressing them to his face. He slipped the chain around his neck, slipping the the tags underneath his shirt.

Seb left, not long after. Left their flat. Left that life. Read about Jim being placed in a grave under the name ‘Richard Brooks’. Bribed someone to steal the body, cremate it, bring him the ashes. He killed the man he bribed, of course. Felt nothing. Jim’s death had left Seb empty. Had left him alone.

He traveled with the ashes. Took them to the city they had first met, spread a third there. Took them to the city they had first fucked. Another third there. Finally, once security had died down, he spread the last bit from the rooftop of Bart’s. It was sentiment, something he knew Jim would hate, but Jim wasn’t there, and Seb could do what he wanted.

Seb wore the dog tags, every day. Only took them off, if he absolutely had to. They were his reminder, a constant reminder, even if he was waiting, holding his breath and pressing the trigger between heartbeats to take out his next target. In a way, Jim was always with him. It was vile, and romantic, but Seb didn’t care.

As life moved on, Seb moved with it. He worked for whoever would pay him. Whatever they would be willing to pay him. When Sherlock came back, Seb was angry, and for the first time since Jim’s death, over something other than money. Jim had died, he had lost him forever, and the bastard Holmes was still breathing, still drawing in air. It was like all of the emotions came rushing back. They were harder to contain, now. Seb had gone so long feeling nothing.

He went back to London, a place he had swore never to return to. This time, he had a purpose. To put an end to Sherlock Holmes.

But as things go, with emotions, they often lead to mistakes. And instead of putting an end to Holmes, he found himself kneeling on the ground, a gun to his head, being told to give up. To submit to their wishes. To be jailed. Seb shook his head. Grabbed the dog tags with one hand, went for his gun with the other.

He had one last thought, as his captor’s gun went off, and the world went blank.

Jim was going to be mad he didn’t follow directions.


End file.
